


Skin

by PocketSwordOfDamocles



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Royai Week 2015, i literally wrote this the day of the prompt, lol like my life, no romance just pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 22:21:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9144832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketSwordOfDamocles/pseuds/PocketSwordOfDamocles
Summary: “Burn this off my back. Destroy the secrets of Flame Alchemy.”





	

“Burn this off my back. Destroy the secrets of Flame Alchemy.”

Hawkeye’s words were lead in the pit of his stomach as he stared at her bare back. The back he’d studied countless times, only to later use the knowledge to commit horrendous acts because that was what his country ordered. The back that held his master’s – her father’s – research in the form of a large tattoo she never asked for. The back that did not deserve any of this.

Though he had reluctantly agreed back in Ishval, Mustang dreaded this moment, his actions in the war all too fresh in his memory. What if his brain tricked him into thinking he was back on the battlefield, and killed Hawkeye? His victims haunted his nightmares, even his waking hours. The possibility of adding Hawkeye…he wanted to vomit.

He had vomited – twice, in fact, and paced and tried to breath, to remind himself he was no longer in that hell. No, that wasn’t right – the real hell was in his head, and he couldn’t escape it. These memories were the worst form of his own personal hell, he realized.

It took over an hour for Mustang to calm down, Hawkeye never questioning what was wrong. She understood, because the nightmares haunted her as well. She knew what she was asking of him was cruel, but there could be no more flame alchemists. Ever. Not after what she witnessed in Ishval.

When Mustang nodded that he was as ready as he could be, he averted his eyes as Hawkeye removed her shirt again, exposing her to back to be scarred a second time. His eyes rested on the medical kit and damp towels sitting on her desk. Hawkeye straddled a chair, pressing her shirt against her chest with the back of it. When he dared to look, she locked eyes with him in a silent agreement as she bit down on a towel. He stepped directly behind her, and swallowed the bile rising in the back of his throat as he numbly pulled his glove on.

How fitting to burn away the secrets in the very room he had discovered them. How ironic to burn away flame alchemy research with flames. How sadistic this situation was.

Thumb to middle finger, Mustang whispered, “I’m sorry.” Hawkeye stiffly nodded.

Snap. Spark.

Burning flesh filled his nose, the nightmares throttling into him. He couldn’t breathe suddenly, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He was in danger. Terrified. Alone and surrounded by faceless bodies pointing guns at his chest. His hands shook as he readied himself for another attack. He was going to die. No, not here – not here! _He didn’t want to die_ –

And Hawkeye was screaming through clench teeth.

Mustang jerked at the soul-shattering sound, air slamming into his lungs. All at once, he came to himself – to the position his fingers were in, a twitch away from incinerating Hawkeye completely. Revolted, he ripped the glove off and threw it across the room, barely containing his scream of horror. Hands fisted into his hair, he took in his surrounds, forcing himself to breathe: He was safe, in Hawkeye’s room, and there were no more enemies. No more guns or fire or smoke or need to constantly be looking over his shoulder. No more dead bodies, friend or foe. No more fighting.

Hawkeye’s groan had him snatching the damp towel from the desk and gingerly laying it over the burns; she flinched, hissing, nails digging into the chair and jaw clamping on the towel between her teeth. Ragged breathes were drawn in and out between the two of them. The sight of her pain was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into his flashbacks – she needed him, needed him to keep it together.

Apologies were muttered as he slowly removed the towel across her scolded back, replacing it with a fresh, newly damp one. He didn’t know what to do – he gave burns, not treated them. They should have had a doctor – something, someone better than just him to help her.

Her hand suddenly was grasping his, and his eyes rose to meet hers. Her eyes – those big, warm-brown eyes rimmed with tears and exhausted from pain and death and haunting memories – showed no hatred for him, merely understanding and gratitude he did not deserve. After removing the towel to speak, Hawkeye weakly smiled, “It’s okay…I’m okay, sir…Thank you.”

Mustang marveled at her. He clasped to his knees, head bent, and choked back a sob. _Do not thank me_ , he wanted to tell her. She should not be grateful to have had suffered this pain. His hand tightened around hers, his body trembling.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Hawkeye. I’m so, so, so sorry. I’m sorry. Please – _I’m sorry_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY. Okay, not sorry-sorry, but sorry-ish?


End file.
